


Underwear

by Ololon



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Angst, Humor, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-27
Updated: 2012-08-27
Packaged: 2017-11-13 00:50:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ololon/pseuds/Ololon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set circa season 2, but no specific timeline. Garak asks Julian to model underwear for him. (Why are you looking at me like that?!).<br/>"My dear doctor, the camera always lies..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Underwear

**Author's Note:**

> Originally beta'ed about a 100 years ago by Kaytee, from the garakbashir yahoogroups mailing list. There is supposed to be an Underwear version 2 story, but that's been hardly started since forever, so I finally finished this one off and tidied it up; it's a new posting.

_I recognise that mystical air, it means ‘I’d like to see your underwear’ – Miserable Lie, The Smiths._

Their usual weekly lunch was interrupted by the admittedly entertaining spectacle of the proprietor being arrested by a gloating Constable Odo. Julian craned his neck around to see what was going on, but Quark’s shrill protests were drowned out by the undiminished hubbub in the bar.

“Do you know what that’s all about?” he asked Garak, returning his attention to his companion. “Not vole-baiting again I hope?” Garak quirked an eyeridge.

“A little more exotic this time, I am given to understand.” He leaned forward, affecting a conspiratorial air. “ _Apparently,_ Quark has been distributing some _very_ interesting material about the station.”

“ _Really?”_ Julian’s eyes widened. “Well,” he added, trying to sound more urbane, “That can hardly be more inappropriate than all those erotic holoprogrammes. Er, that I’ve heard he has, that is.” Surprisingly, Garak didn’t pounce on that.

“’Erotic’ is hardly a description I would apply to anything so…blatant,” he said instead, with a disdainful sniff.

“Nothing left to the imagination?” Julian suggested, his curiosity piqued.

“Quite. How anyone can find that sort of thing…arousing, is quite beyond me. You might as well view one of your anatomy videos.”

“Well, I suppose, although most of the participants in those are dead.” Garak just gave him a look that suggested he had made his point for him. “So,” he seized the opening, teasing, “Don’t Cardassians have pornography then?”

“I’m sorry to say it’s not _quite_ the overarching cultural difference you may have gathered from this one example,” Garak answered dryly, “Personally, I find skillful dress, and artful subtext, a lot more…stimulating. Or, as we tailors say: a little decent underwear can go a long way.” Julian laughed.

“Or, as we tasteful humans say: less is more.” Garak nodded acknowledgement.

“I agree.” Julian smiled broadly.

“Really? I think that’s the first time you’ve ever said that. It’s only taken us, what, a year and a half to find a subject we agree upon?” Garak chuckled.

“We should be careful, I wouldn’t want to make a habit of it.” Julian’s smile finally broke into a grin.

“Well, I won’t tell if you won’t,” which won him a surprised bark of laughter from Garak, the sort he gave when Julian said something unexpected and, most probably, uniquely human.

Odo passed them then, with two deputies carrying boxes of evidence, and a loudly protesting Quark in tow.

“Constable, this _really_ is outrageous! I strongly object to your characterisation of these photographs as _indecent._ They’re not _indecent,_ they’re _art!_ ” Julian laughed; Garak just shook his head, taking a sip from his glass.

“I wonder why he went into photographs.”

“Rather less obvious than a programme running in a holosuite, I should think,” Garak pointed out, “Although I hesitate to go so far as to say ‘discreet’ when it comes to Quark.”

“I’m surprised that there’s much of a market for still images,” Julian mused.

“Perhaps his clientele are possessed of more imagination than I give them credit for,” Garak opined, sounding distinctly unconvinced, “Although I suppose photographs exercise their own power on the mind. More real than a painting, but more ambiguous than a video, and silent, of course.”

“There’s an old expression to the effect that the camera never lies,” Julian remarked, thoughtful, earning himself a disdainful snort.

“Only humans would so completely misunderstand photography.”

“Oh? Granted that you don’t alter the image in some way after you’ve taken it, you’re making a faithful reproduction of a real scene. You’re only showing what’s there.”

“No you’re not. You’re presenting one particular viewpoint of one particular moment in time. You’re _constructing_ the image, and choosing what to show to the viewer – and what not to show. My dear doctor, the camera _always_ lies.” Julian made no reply, although he smiled silently, shaking his head slightly, and the conversation lulled for a moment. Garak refilled their glasses, briefly pensive, a slight, troubled frown upon his face. Julian wondered what he was thinking about. Then it was gone, as fast as a cloud passing across the sun.

“Speaking of underwear,” Garak began again, conversationally, and bright and smiling again, “Reminds me that I’ve been meaning to ask you to do me a favour, doctor.”

“Er…really?” Julian asked warily, nonplussed.

“Yes. At the request of some of my customers, I’ve been compiling a catalogue that they can peruse at their own leisure. Of course, this has the added advantage that, for those who regularly travel off-station, they can show it to their families, for example, thus expanding my client base a little.”

“It’s a good idea. Do you want help compiling it on the computer?”

“No thank you, I need a male underwear model.” Julian’s mouth sagged right open. Garak smiled brightly at him.

“You want me to…?” he managed at last.

“Yes, doctor, for some of the Human and Bajoran lines. I had no problem hiring some of Quark’s dabo girls for the lingerie section, but, for some reason I cannot begin to fathom, my male Bajoran customers seemed less enthusiastic at the prospect, and Morn, whilst eager to help, isn’t, shall we say, quite what I’m looking for.”

“You want me to _model underwear for you?”_  Julian repeated, incredulous.

“Yes doctor,” Garak told him, affecting an air of slight puzzlement. “Have I said something confusing?”

“I can’t do that!” Julian spluttered.

“Why ever not? Do you not wear underwear?”

“Of course I wear - ! You’re winding me up, aren’t you?” he accused.

“Quaint phrase, and I’m perfectly serious. If you’re worried about people recognising you, we’ll keep your face out of it, or in shadow. It’s not what they’re supposed to be looking at anyway, comely though it may be. Naturally, if you see anything you like, you can keep it, and of course you can approve all the photos before I put them in.”

“Well, all right then,” Julian said slowly, “Since the camera always lies. And how is it?” he jabbed an accusing fork at Garak, who was smiling beatifically at him, “That Quark gets arrested for having suggestive photos and you get Dabo girls posing half-naked for you?”

“My dear doctor, it’s _hardly_ pornography. I’m insulted you can even draw the comparison.”

“No you’re not.” Another jab of the fork. “And it’s hardly art either.” Garak pretended to look affronted, but smiled nonetheless.

 

Unbelievably, Julian spent over an hour deciding what to wear – for getting undressed! Even more unbelievably, he hadn’t chickened out. Well, he wasn’t one to go back on his word. It was just that – he just couldn’t believe he’d agreed in the first place. Never mind the possibility that half the station could end up staring at photos of his half-clad crotch, how was he supposed to get through this modelling session without it becoming an exercise in total humiliation and embarrassment?! Not feeling what he felt, wanting what he wanted. And that was why he’d said yes, when it came down to it: because this might be the chance he’d been waiting for. I mean, come on, Garak had just about admitted he found that sort of thing erotic – and then invited him to come and ‘model’ for him. Maybe, the whole modelling thing was a complete pretense. He wouldn’t be surprised, knowing Garak, if it proved to be just that.

It was 23:30 – he’d have to get a move on, he was supposed to be there already. He was relieved Garak had suggested doing his photoshoot in his shop, rather than his quarters (god!) or his own (the same), but Julian had insisted on making it as late as possible. He didn’t want too many people around.

He hurried across the darkened Promenade, keeping his head down and feeling his heart pount in his chest, as though he were on a secret mission, and skittered to a halt outside the tailor’s shop, which was dark. He couldn’t _believe_ he’d agreed to this. No matter what else happened, he promised himself as he ran his sweaty palms down the sides of his trousers and brushed his hair back, Jadzia must never, _ever,_ find out. He pressed the chime, and the door opened onto dimly-lit warmth.

“Ah, doctor,” Garak greeted him cheerfully, as he warily stepped in. It was immediately apparent that, if this was a pretense, it was a very thorough one. Garak had a careful arrangement of lights set up, and a complicated and rather old-fashioned-looking camera ready and waiting on a tripod.

“Would you care for a drink?” Garak proferred solicitously, “I have a bottle of quite passable kanar open, but if you’d prefer something a little less potent…” Julian had to clear his throat.

“Kanar would be fine. Thank you.”

“Excellent. Why don’t you pick out something you’d feel comfortable in whilst I just get you your drink?”

“Right.” He pulled aside the heavy, rich red curtain to the changing room and saw a selection of underwear laid out on the bench. Really rather nice-looking underwear.

He was beginning to think Garak had been perfectly serious after all.

 

Julian stumbled back across a now deserted Promenade over two hours later, feeling somewhat dazed, with his skin tingling and his head buzzing slightly with real alcohol. He fumbled his door code, stripped his clothes off and fell back onto the bed, naked. Unbelievable! He’d really thought Garak would make a move, a pass, a – _something_. Instead he’d gone from Risian silk to Andorian wool, boxers to briefs to barely anything, all the while with Garak snapping away, light touches of his hands turning him this way and that, his smooth voice coaxing and encouraging, his eyes intense and even, he’d thought, admiring, the atmosphere as charged as an ion storm. Yet the touch of his hands was cool and fleeting, never lingering, his tone was absolutely professional, and his calculating gaze purely an aesthetic, artistic one. And _nothing_ had happened. In desperation, Julian had resorted to silent Vulcan meditations to prevent a very embarrassing reaction to _nothing_ happening.

They’d probably be wonderful photos, he thought, a little sourly. It was obviously something of a hobby for Garak, or had been, at some time in the past. They’d not gone through the images; he’d been tired and wanting to make an escape. Garak had thanked him profusely and promised to drop them round the following evening.

“Jadzia must never, _ever,_ find out I modelled underwear for Garak,” he told the ceiling, in the dark, “And that it was the most singularly erotic, frustrating experience of my life.”

 

The promised photos arrived the following evening, delivered in an innocuous package that Odo would probably find suspicious. Julian had had a busy day in the infirmary, and wasn’t really in the mood, truth be told, but he opened it anyway. Garak had sent him hard copies, and there seemed to be rather more than he remembered.

He got himself a pot of tea and sat on the bed, idly picking them out one by one, glancing at them and dropping them on the bed. True to his word, they were all suitably close-focussed and anonymous, all tastefully clothed and admittedly rather well done shots of his own nether regions, suitably and attractively attired. Not in the least bit titillating, and probably not recognisable as him; none of the images strayed further north than chest level, if that. He stared a while at what he knew was the last one in the session, sipping his tea thoughtfully, considering what Garak had said. He had no idea, after all, if Garak had versions in which all of him was in frame.

He looked in the box, and realised that it had a false bottom; a rather obvious false bottom, perhaps more accurately described as a second level, like a chocolate selection. He lifted up the card and peered beneath, to find another light parcel, wrapped in fine silver paper. Curious, he opened it carefully and gave a low whistle as he discovered an exquisitely crafted creation in finest Tholian silk; a blend of midnight blue or purple that seemed to change colour in the light. The term ‘underwear’ didn’t quite do it justice. He didn’t even remember modelling it last night, but there was photographic evidence to the contrary, and he had no doubt it would be a perfect fit. He opened it up and something fell out onto the floor. Another photograph.

Putting the underwear carefully to one side, he picked it up. Sure enough, it was him. All of him, fully clad and just twitching open the curtain to the changing room, glancing furtively off to the side, one hand already at his shirt fastening. He supposed Garak might have just taken it whilst setting up the parameters, except that clearly wasn’t what the photo showed. It was a portrait of a young man on an illicit liaison, drawing aside the curtain to greet his lover; he looked wanton, and secretive, about to indulge in some forbidden, stolen moment, a promise of carnality in his flushed face and bright eyes. _The camera always lies._ Or, perhaps, as another human phrase had it: Every picture tells a story.

“Very clever, Garak,” he murmured to himself. Okay, so the Cardassian couldn’t resist proving his own point, but Julian couldn’t stop himself from speculating that it meant more than that. There was nothing written on the back of the photograph; no jibe at his expense, or a remark to the effect that the underwear was a gift, to say thank you. Which he couldn’t help but think implied that it _wasn’t_ a thank you at all, but something else entirely. Staring at that photograph, he was sure that the unwritten message was an invitation to an illicit meeting, and, perhaps, an unspoken request: _Wear it for me._

He flopped back on the bed with a groan. Maybe he was reading entirely too much into this, but – but and but. He _knew_ what Garak was like, as much as anyone did; knew his fondness for games and subterfuge. Knew too, his sense of caution: Garak wouldn’t want to risk jeopardising their friendship, nor would he want to reveal his desires unless he was sure it would be to his benefit. He couldn’t blame him. Neither did he. And so here they still were, circling around each other’s meaning and never getting to the point.

_Wear it for me._ A shudder ran through him.

He sent a message to Garak’s computer, asking him to come over later that night so that they could ‘discuss the photos’. Much later.

 

He’d specified 00:30. Very late. He stood in the centre of the room, all the lights off, no motion or sound except that of his own breathing. Naked except for his underwear, cool silk against his skin; silk Garak’s fingers had spun, spiderlike, into a thing of beauty. Touched. Given to him. Caressed in the camera’s lens. The faintest of currents from the air conditioning teased across his sensitised flesh, like the ghost of those fingers. The contours of the room were softened but clear to his dark-adjusted eyes, grey-toned, and it was as though his awareness were expanding out into the still, shaded corridors, filling their emptiness. His fingers twitched slightly by his sides.

Came the faintest sound from the corridor, and his ears strained to penetrate bulkheads and walls. There. Again. Slight scuff of patent leather shoe against duridium floor. A tremor ran through his whole body. Clearer now, measured footsteps approaching outside; the light but distinct tread of a powerfully-built body that knew how to move softly. He was coming, and in a minute he’d want to see –

Pause of footsteps outside the door. The muted crump of thick woollen sleeve creasing as an arm was lifted, and a firm fingertip pressed against the raised metallic sheen of the doorchime.

He ignored it, breath quickening and silk stretching in tune with his excitement. A pause, then a rapid pattering of pads as his keypad was swiftly and skilfully overrode. The door swished open, letting in a cool gust of corridor air that made him shiver, and Garak stepped in, the merest sketch of a graphite shade in a gunmetal grey tunic, sleek-fitting; a cloth cut wholly from shadow and angle. The camera was slung over one shoulder, a ghostly silver in the gloom. He stood directly in front of Julian, eyes locked with his own. He could _feel_ the warmth radiating off him. Garak’s mouth quirked in a wry half-smile, brief glimpse of ghostly teeth, and his gaze flicked down, all the way down, once, then cruised in a controlled fashion back to meet his own widened eyes, leaving a searing trail of heat in their wake.

“It suits you,” in a rich, gravelly rumble. Julian didn’t – couldn’t – wait, and surged forward, grasping broad shoulders and pressing them into a desperate kiss. Garak held him a hand’s breadth away, balanced on the fingertips of one kid leather glove poised squarely against his chest, slowly deepening the connection with splaying fingers, tongue touching as lightly as fingers were firm. With his other hand, he traced a shivering trail down one exposed flank and Julian gasped a faint whimper into his mouth. Then those strong arms had enfolded him in a full embrace, kiss deepening further, hand ebbing away, and all his front was pressed against faintly prickling, teasing wool, insistent leather panels at his shoulders and sides, and the shock, cold demanding press of metal stud and clasp, embossed against his yielding flesh. Garak ran hands across his back, dipped briefly past silk margin and back up again, rippled through his hair. Julian seized them gently, Garak instantly stilling, and peeled the gloves off like a second skin, a questioning look in his eyes.

“I wanted warm hands for you,” the Cardassian murmured, and Julian smiled, turning the hands over and kissing each cradled palm.

“I want skin,” he said, boldly, pulling Garak in for another kiss and fumbling for the fastenings at his collar. A heavy cold lump bumped his hip, and he jumped, startled: Garak lifted the camera strap from his shoulder and placed it on the desk.

“We won’t need this,” he stated firmly. Garak assisted him then, and, impatient, he shifted his focus to the belt, pulling it aside with a loud snap, and unfastening the fly with unseemly haste.

“Garak! You’re not wearing any underwear!” he exclaimed.

“I couldn’t decide,” the tailor admitted, “You’ll put me out of a job.”

“Take up photography,” Julian countered distractedly, then dropped to his knees, pulling open the stiff trousers, insinuating exploratory fingers in, rewarded by a sharp hiss from the Cardassian as they found their target. They had to do this with the lights on sometime, he thought distractedly, but didn’t dare call for them now, lest it ruin the momentum. He stroked experimentally, and, when Garak made no move to discourage him, ducked his head and touched tongue to tip; a tantalising deep musk taste that made his own cock strain against its flimsy silk prison.

But those firm hands on his shoulders were persuading him up, hands briefly cupping his face gently.

“Bed,” Garak told him, before he could ask, and motioned towards the bed. Julian nodded eagerly, and, grabbing a generous handful of half-parted tunic, pulled him back.

“We _have_ to get you undressed!” Proceeding on this mission with the determination of the painfully aroused, he removed layers of clothes almost as though he were peeling off layers of meaning in conversation, whilst Garak awkwardly refused to break the seal of their lips the whole while. He flipped Julian’s briefs off with a negligent flip of the wrist, and grasped him, eliciting a heartfelt moan from the doctor.

“Silk isn’t good enough for you. Must find something better,” he muttered, absent-mindedly. Hands free to roam at last, Julian discovered that Garak’s contoured skin heated and softened like toffee the more aroused he became, until it yielded like chamois leather. The cool sheets impacted his back with a shock, and for a moment he froze, and one protesting thought pushed to the front of his mind: _What the hell am I doing? With a man like him?_ The Cardassian was a heavy, dark presence above him, setting his skin on fire, alien-tasting tongue in his mouth insinuating a caress against his own. He reached one hand for the bedside light and his wrist was instantly grasped in a larger one, drawn back. He pushed back against an embossed chest; Garak’s eyes met his briefly with a look that seemed to say, even in the dark, that this was a concession he’d grant, since he’d denied him the light, and then that powerful body rolled with the ease and obedience of a well-trained horse and Julian found himself on top; breathing a little more easily and thinking a little less, then not thinking any more at all.

Garak finally broke the connection of their swollen lips, only to transfer his attention to the rest of Julian’s body, all teasing nips and kisses, rolling a taut nipple between light porcelain teeth when he discovered the reaction it got. Intuitively, Julian bit down somewhat harder on Garak’s neck, rewarded by a soft curse he’d never heard aloud. Certainly not from Garak. Emboldened, he traced the swirling ridges on that bas-relief torso, following tongue with fingers; memorising by touch what he could not see, then sent his questing hands scouting ahead, seeking the source of the insistent wet prod against his flanks, and finally finding and latching onto his target again. Garak arched into his hand with an unexpected flexibility, before crashing back onto the heated sheets with another velvet-toned oath. Swallowing his smile, he danced his tongue across the slicked marble head before drawing him in as far as he could. Garak made only a stifled sound, and his hands, which were hot now, flew up to tangle in his hair, trembling slightly. Deliberately, he reached his own hand up, and, understanding, Garak captured his fingers in that clever mouth and sucked in tune with his own ministrations. Garak’s cock grazed against the roof of his mouth and slid down his throat with almost the same deft skill his tongue had, but with a harder, blinder, more instinctive rhythm; letting Julian slowly increase the tempo of his own accord. He reached back down, fingers questing once more, delving between thighs whose trembling inner flanks seemed to be the only part of his lover that was smooth. He followed instead the source of the ever-increasing heat and found at last a way into it, muscles giving like a soft mattress to admit him.

He needed lubricant, he realised, belatedly, and lost the rhythm for a moment, then wondered if Garak would even permit…but he needed, he needed to know that he had him, as much as he could, because…He broke off, distracted, and began to fumble towards the bedside drawer again, and once again Garak caught his wrist and returned it. He met his eyes desperately. Garak’s grip was still firmly closed about his arm, and he knew that he would never be able to shift it, never turn that strength, unless he was allowed to.

“Give me everything,” he panted. Garak smiled knowingly, sadly, triumphantly. He moved Julian’s hand to his groin again.

“Use me,” a suede ambiguous growl, “If you will.” Needing no further encouragement he grasped the Cardassian again and stroked him in an urgent friction. Garak’s hips lifted again with a sharp exhale, and, as if he had only been waiting for the admission, his hand overflowed with hot musk fluid as the body beneath him shook and juddered. Driven by his own overriding need he immediately annointed his own demanding flesh, before pressing slickened fingers back into that intoxicating heat, insistently parting the way before him. Garak rolled again to his side, raising a leg made slippery with human sweat. His own lips giving up curses now, Julian pushed himself in as far as he could, making a jigsaw-perfect fit of flesh; hand in glove. He dropped his head to a broad shoulder, moaned desperately into it. Sensation all but overwhelmed him, as, face pressed into that heat-softened skin, he fastened teeth onto that ridged neck, his tongue tasting dusk dry iron, scent filling his nostrils, feather-soft hair against his ear and sweat stinging his eyes, and heat, heat all around him, as he gripped hard against a tapered waist and thrust with ever-increasing force, over and over. With the last vestige of forethought, he found Garak’s still-hard cock and moved them together, the Cardassian fitting himself to the human’s demanding timing with near-perfect submission. It sent him spiralling uncontrolled over the edge and, with a stentorian cry that he’d never heard from himself, he finally came in a sustained burst, shooting seed into fire, igniting Garak’s own release as well.

He collapsed over that massive shoulder, muscles rendered to jelly, but Garak was solid beneath him, a strength that supported him easily whilst he slowly regained his breath. Garak’s pulse throbbed through both their enjoined bodies, briefly drowning out the pounding of his own heart.

“You’re softer than you appear,” he murmured unthinkingly after a few moments, when he’d caught his breath, and belatedly realised that it probably sounded insulting, but Garak just chuckled. He nipped against the sculpted jawline, and slipped out during Garak’s startled exhale, rolling onto his back. Perhaps they should clear themselves up a bit, he thought, and began to move, but Garak, predictably, caught hold of him again and pulled him into his side, with a gently admonished:

“Don’t even think about it, and I’m perfectly fine, before you also segue into Doctor mode.” He chuckled himself then, expecting Garak’s usual banter to resurface, but he remained silent. After a while, he realised that maybe Garak was just quiet when he was content, and he didn’t want to break the silence himself anyway.

 

To Julian’s surprise, Garak fell asleep relatively rapidly, and he lay awake, relaxed and tired, yet somehow not sleepy; his mind surprisingly alert, but muzzy, just drifting at the edge of sleep, one thought to another. Perhaps he was too hot; the room was warmer than he usually had it; the heat and the dark felt almost suffocating, as if the entire room had buried itself under the covers.

He opened his eyes. Garak looked different in his room; well, of course he did, naked in his bed, such as he’d never seen him, and a soft, amused, ‘huh!’ escaped him; amusement at his own thoughts, and his eyes drifted closed. But after a while, in that odd confusion of the half-asleep, he thought that maybe it was that his room looked different with Garak in it. He found he was looking around again. Even with dark-adjusted eyes of perfect vision, there was little to see; just the formless but familiar shapes, toned from the faintest silver sheen of starlight on the mirror, to the pooled midnight ink of the shadows of the duvet where they had kicked it upon the floor. He thought, suddenly, that Garak might be cold, and bent to retrieve it, spread it over his unstirring form.

Somehow he’d pictured Garak as remaining ever-vigilant, sensitive to the faintest sound and movement even in sleep, ready to spring awake at the slightest intimation of threat, but to all appearances he was dead to the world. Which led to the obvious conclusion that ‘to all appearances’ was all that it was, and this peaceful slumber was all an act. Or that Garak was comfortable enough to relax so completely when he was with him. Which led to the conclusion that it was trust, and he shied away from that notion. Certainly, he’d never seen him so quiet, which led to another flash of amusement.

He couldn’t quite believe how he’d come to be in this situation. Only two days ago they were laughing and joking over Quark’s discomfort; pure humour, and then he’d somehow ended up modelling for Garak; more like pure farce, and now this? The unexpected twist in the tale? The end of the tale? The turn on a dime from comedy to tragedy when the cold artificial daylight rendered everything of the night as unbelievable as it was, exposed it for a fairytale gone with the morning? Perhaps Garak had more than one reason for not wanting him to turn the light on.

As if the thought awakened the impulse, his hand once again stole towards the light, and he brought it up to its lowest level, revealing nothing more sinister than the chaotic dishevelment of his own room, clothes strewn all upon the floor, and that Garak was still in his bed, very solid and very real. It still felt very _unreal_ , a moment captured to illustrate a point, not necessarily a truth but…the thought escaped him, and he made to turn the light out again, but then the ghostly light reflected from the glass lens of the camera in the other room caught his eye, and he paused, frowning. Why had Garak brought the camera? As an insurance in case he’d mistaken Julian’s intent? Yet after all this time dancing around each other, he felt certain that Garak would never have taken the chance if he hadn’t known exactly what would be waiting for him on the other side of the door. He’d dressed for the occasion, after all. No, the whole thing felt like, well, nothing so crude as a set-up, but certainly one of Garak’s complicated little games. He’d brought the camera deliberately.

More awake now, and intrigued, he carefully slipped fully out of bed, and crept over to retrieve it. A few experimental button pushes and he brought up the menu, and discovered that there were stored photos in the memory. A slight feeling of naughtiness stole over him, and he glanced involuntarily over at Garak, but the Cardassian was sound asleep. He padded through to the desk in the living room, and plugged it into his computer, brought up the images on the screen with a soft chirrup. Not even encrypted. For someone as paranoid, or at least secretive, as Garak? He didn’t buy it.

The first image was just Garak’s own rooms; empty and barely lit, and he thought at first that Garak must have made a mistake and these were from an earlier practice session that he had forgotten to erase from the camera. Except that it wasn’t like Garak to make a mistake like that. He flicked through the rest, puzzled. A succession of empty rooms, empty spaces, one after the other. Deserted parts of the station; where exactly, he had no idea. An empty shuttle bay. Quark’s after shut down. A holosuite not running any programme; but mostly living quarters, some already empty, some – he wasn’t sure – they could be occupied, or they could simply have been arranged to look lived in. He didn’t know, and he had an uneasy feeling about it. Garak shouldn’t be doing this.

Empty rooms, but…he went back through them, and in each one he picked out a discarded, forgotten, placed piece of clothing. A coat hanging on the back of a bedroom door. A sweater slung carelessly over a sofa arm. Something crumpled and shapeless on a bathroom floor. A pair of shoes under a dining table. More surreal, the upper level of the Promenade, completely deserted; a leather belt hanging somewhat sinisterly from the walkway rail like a hangman’s noose. The table where they usually sat in the Replimat, and a glove on _his_ seat. Just one. He went back to the first photo. Garak’s bedroom, as empty as the rest, but no clothes. It took him a moment to see it, but when he did he was astounded that he hadn’t noticed before. Reflected upon the dressing table mirror, an image of the photographer; Garak, fondling the image on the lens. Completely naked. He looked, he couldn’t help but think, different naked in the photo than he did naked in his bed, but he couldn’t say how. He stared at the image for a long time. It wasn’t a command this time. It was a question. And he had to give it an answer.

He padded through to the bathroom, and cleaned himself up briefly before slipping on some fresh clothes and slipping quietly out of his room. He was about to abuse his medical override to break into Garak’s quarters, but he didn’t care. Evidently, he was willing to go this far; to play along with the game and lay to rest Garak’s unspoken insecurities, which answered rather well to his own. He found it wasn’t really so frightening as he thought it might be.

It didn’t take long to complete his mission, and he was back and slipping back under the covers in his – actually quite cool – bedroom in only a matter of minutes. Garak hadn’t moved an inch, but when he pressed a kiss against his face he rolled drowsily onto his back and reached for him. Not so fast asleep as all that then, he thought, wryly. Julian snuggled his face against the warm chest, eyes fluttering closed already. He really was terribly tired.

“If you sleep there you’ll wake up with some very interesting pillow lines on your face,” Garak murmured.

“I don’t care.” He felt, rather than saw, the smile on his lover’s face, and grinned secretly to himself. Tomorrow, he knew, Garak would be back to his usual self, bantering over breakfast, defences raised. It was still quite possible he would disappear entirely before daylight, sneaking back to his own quarters, avoiding all possible embarrassment or rejection. There he would find a pair of Julian’s shoes placed neatly by his bed, as if they belonged there. Then, Julian knew, Garak would be back, and he’d be ready.


End file.
